


Quoting Newton In Passing

by laziestgirlintown



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Other, Post-Canon, established arrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 02:30:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laziestgirlintown/pseuds/laziestgirlintown





	Quoting Newton In Passing

In a lot of ways, you’d expect it to be Aziraphale who’d suggest it to Crowley. You’d think he’d stock up with arguments like “We’d get to be a part of stopping traffic, for _hours_ ”, and “Think of the amount of glitter littering, you could even make a _pun_ and call it _glittering_ ,” and “You could invent our own flag if you’d like, and see if someone gets it.” Eventually, he might parenthetically suggest something about going out in the streets to celebrate and, he might even hint, _boast_ their … arrangement.

Instead, one lazy afternoon when it’s just the two of them in the bookshop, because Aziraphale wants it to be just the two of them in the bookshop that afternoon, and Crowley is sprawled over a settee, sprawling, and Aziraphale is sitting in an armchair, reading, it’s Crowley who drawls,

“There’s something I’d like to try to tempt you to, angel.”

And Aziraphale, who is the only being who would hear the very tiny note of hesitation in the demon’s voice, smiles down at his book and says,

“Well, that has been having a rather splendidly satisfactory success rate lately, wouldn’t you say?”

And Crowley doesn’t say anything about the things the angel has successfully tempted _him_ to lately, but rather says,

“I should forewarn you, that if everything works out as planned, it would result in you wearing in public as dashing an outfit as you can possibly come up with. The spiffier the better. For a whole day.”

“You don’t say,” the angel says slowly. “And you’d …”

“If you’d ask me if anything was a bit too much, I’d ask what you’d actually wanted to add but hadn’t, and tell you to add it.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows did some amazing things that Crowley surely didn’t see, because he certainly wasn’t looking. “Really?”

“Promisse.”

“This sounds like quite a caper.”

“Oh, it iss. Whole city affected, historical resonance, political importance domestic and abroad, oodles of free will being exercised …”

"And what would you wear?"

Crowley stumbles. Behind his dark glasses, he glances up at Aziraphale, sitting beatific and pleased, still seemingly absorbed by his book. He looks down at his black clothes, very comfortable for sprawling.

"This, I suppose?" he manages.

Aziraphale's eyes flick up, then calmly away. He says nothing further, but Crowley knows he knows.

"Is it because it's one of the cardinal sins?" Crowley asks, reluctantly.

"I would like to think we've removed ourselves from that sort of thinking, wouldn't you?" Aziraphale says.

"Yes, I'd hoped so!" Crowley exclaims. 

"If it was about that we could complement it with Courage, or Justice - or indeed Hope, as you suggest - to have one of each, but you know, I'm just so tired of binary constructions."

"Or constructions of seven versus seven abstract constructs," Crowley mutters.

"Quite," his angel allows.

"So _will_ you walk with me in the London Pride parade?"

Aziraphale chuckles, puts a ribbon in his book to mark his place, and stands up.

"Of course I will, my dear," he says as he walks over to Crowley. "And perhaps you would consider a smattering of colours for the day, to accentuate the black?” He sits sideways on the settee and leans against its back, Crowley’s long legs warm against his hip. Crowley stares at him. “Perhaps a scarf in purple, grey and white, with a black knot? Or in yellow, white and purple?”

“I … I might consider it. You …”

“Sunglasses with rainbow frames?”

“Well ....” Crowley looks away.

“I know you were upset about that whole thing, but apparently there’s this whole ‘meme’ about ‘reclaiming’ good things with undeserved connotations, and I thought …”

He pronounces meme “memmy” and Crowley has to either interrupt him or coil up in his lap - “Fine! I’ll consider it. Perhaps a small pin.” But that makes him think about Shadwell and his witchfinder army and he starts laughing and can’t stop, and when eventually they both gradually stop laughing they’re lying side by side, grinning.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale says, “whyever it was created, now it really is water and light refracting at the right slanting angle.”

“Would _you_ wear the rainbow?” Crowley asks.

“As a matter of fact, white is compounded of the entire visible spectrum of colours mix'd in a due proportion.”

“So you already are.”

“Electromagnetically speaking.”

“All right.”

Crowley looks at his angel for so long Aziraphale says, “What?”

“No, I was just thinking, if _I’m_ going to wear a colour or two …”

Aziraphale tries, and fails, to look stern. “What are you trying to tempt me to now?”

“Tartan is very stylish.”

“You didn’t …”

“Would you wear a kilt?”

Aziraphale’s ears turn pink. A lovely colour in and of itself.

“I'm not of a clan,” he begins.

“Nah, but the first time you were in Scotland there were only like five of them. You could claim a bit of seniority.” The angel hesitates. “You could invent your own tartan. Colours of your choisss.”

“Oh you foul fiend,” Aziraphale breathes, tempted.

“Conssider it,” Crowley says and slithers onto his lap, curling up in coils upon coils, making some of his scales, just a few of them, reflect all the colours of the slanting afternoon light.


End file.
